


Step Onto Borrowed Time

by parcequelle



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Community: journeystory, F/F, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2743793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inevitability, Kathryn thinks, can still be surprising.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Step Onto Borrowed Time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 [Journey Story Big Bang](journeystory.dreamwidth.org); the fabulous accompanying fanmix created by ontothereverie can be found [here](http://8tracks.com/parcequelle/step-onto-borrowed-time).

Kathryn waits until they're out of the doors on the ground floor of Starfleet Headquarters before she says: “So what did we have in the end, five and a half hours?”

Beside her, Beverly glances down at the chronometer on her wrist and presses a button. “Not quite; I record three hours and twenty-six minutes, eighteen seconds, inclusive opening and closing grunts. I'm afraid your estimation skills could use a little work, Admiral.”

“It seems you're right.” Kathryn looks over at her, considering. “You weren't far off though, were you? Maybe we should start a betting pool. I think Griffiths would be up for it, too; did you catch him damn near snoring during that section on waste removal in the Deltoid sector?”

“I did, but who can blame him?”

“Touché.” Kathryn snorts. “Admiral Flint could talk through reinforced titanium.”

As they have done after every briefing for the last seven briefings, every week for the last seven weeks, they turn together towards the transporter hub tucked behind the HQ building. It's early afternoon, autumn sun filtered bright and warm through the browning trees that line the sidewalk, and the queue for the transport isn't long. The relative emptiness is pleasant, though it's a rare thing for them to have to wait; the combination of Beverly's badge and Kathryn's pips – Kathryn's own face – is inevitably enough to send the clusters of cadets tripping over their feet to make way for them. Kathryn has learned that it's usually easier to just go with it; being the object of hero worship, though generally not to her taste, unquestionably has its benefits. So does the once-loathed role of the deskbound admiral, she's grudgingly had to admit, though those benefits usually involve her leaving her desk.

She feels Beverly's eyes on her, sharp as ever, and smiles. This is a technique she has employed with frequency in recent weeks in an effort to dissuade Beverly from asking after her well-being; sometimes it works.

Beverly asks her, “What are you thinking about?”

Sometimes it doesn't.

Kathryn likes Beverly. She likes her intelligence and her straightforwardness and her competence; she likes her warmth and her awareness and her dry sense of humour and her ability to sum up what Kathryn is thinking with a single pointed look. She also likes that Beverly respects her, respects her privacy, that she doesn't push if Kathryn doesn't talk. Sometimes she doesn't, isn't interested in drawing out whichever brooding preoccupations are winding their way into her consciousness. She watches Beverly, watches the patient way that Beverly watches her, waiting, as though she has all the time in the world to hear what Kathryn has to say, even as they step up to the transport plates and Kathryn provides the usual coordinates with a crisp order to the computer.

A moment later, they materialise in the sleek living room of her Starfleet-issued apartment (one of the perks, or perhaps rather drawbacks, of promotion), and Kathryn decides: sometimes she doesn't want to talk, but sometimes she does.

She tosses her PADDs from the briefing onto the already-overflowing coffee table, and doesn't bother to apologise for the mess. Beverly's already been here enough times to know that Kathryn sleeps here and not much else, to know that the coffee table is the Grand Central Station of her apartment: things come in, things go out, but nothing stays longer than a few hours at the most. The rest of the place is almost spotless, a little lacking in character but with a great view to make up for it, and Kathryn doesn't need to apologise any more. Beverly's seen worse.

“Kathryn?”

She takes her standard time-efficient route over to the replicator, orders Beverly a cup of hot chocolate (a habit she claims she picked up from Deanna Troi in the last few years) and herself a strong black coffee, then heads back over to the too-large but comfortable sofa. She hands Beverly the hot chocolate, takes a sip of her own drink and then, fortified, breathing in a sigh of pleasure, says, “Yes?”

Beverly looks grave, hitches a thumb in the direction of the windowsill. “I hate to say it, but I think your plant is dead.”

Kathryn follows her gaze; the bromeliad, a well-intentioned but overly ambitious gift from her sister, is indeed looking as though it's crossed to the wrong side of wilting. Phoebe had told her that this, like the orchids their mother still so treasures, was a plant that didn't need a great deal of water, but--

“Damn, I think you're right. I suppose three weeks without water was a bit of a stretch, hmm?”

Beverly tries politely to hide her snort in her cup; Kathryn shoots her a withering look to rival that of the plant. “Maybe I can resurrect it. I still have some of that mineral plant food that Chakotay brought back from--”

She can't say exactly what it is that stops her, later, but something does; she turns away from the plant to look at Beverly at the same moment Beverly turns away to look at her, and just as she's starting to ask her, “What do you--” there's a flash, a crackle, a sharp burst of pale blue light that spills from a rift not two metres before them, and then, in the space of a moment, it's gone again. In its place is a man: tall, stocky, cropped hair, tanned face, Starfleet commbadge, perpetually irritated expression.

The man is Captain Braxton.

They stand there, facing each other, Braxton versus Janeway and Crusher, and Beverly says softly, “Do I need to call security?”

A question Kathryn has also just asked herself, but something in Braxton's eyes – a rationality she doesn't expect, perhaps – gives her pause. “Not just yet.” She squares her shoulders, takes in a face she hasn't seen in five years, in tens of thousands of kilometres. “Braxton,” she says slowly. “To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?”

“Cap-- Admiral Janeway, I see you've been promoted. Congratulations. And congratulations on getting your crew home.”

Her eyebrow lifts almost without her consent. “Thank you. Though of course you already knew I'd do it.”

“Of course.”

Impatient, aware of Beverly beside her, coiled and ready to spring into action at any moment, Kathryn says, “I take it from this uncharacteristically pleasant small talk that you aren't here to try to destroy me again?”

Braxton manages to simultaneously glare and roll his eyes, an impressive feat. “No, Janeway, I'm not. And I – apologise for that.” He gets the word out, but she can see how it pinches his lips, can almost see how sour it tastes; how sour the necessity tastes. “Temporal psychosis turned me into someone else, and I'm not proud of my behaviour at that time. I've since undergone temporal reintegration--”

“And the associated psychological rehabilitation, I hope?” This from Beverly, who seems, despite a paucity of information, to have deduced enough to recognise that Braxton presents no immediate threat.

Braxton gives her a dark look. “Naturally, Doctor.”

Kathryn frowns at him. “Weren't you about to stand trial, the last time we met? Why are you back to travelling through time – and, more to the point, bothering me?”

“The 29th century is a progressive place, Admiral, a progressive time, and we have adapted our justice system accordingly. When one is found guilty of a crime the origin of which is rooted in temporal psychosis, the treatment is one of neurological and psychological rehabilitation and, in the event of success, reintegration into society.”

“But you were already reintegrated once with, shall we say, limited success. Why should it have worked any better this time?”

For the first time since he appeared in her living room, Braxton looks something other than entirely comfortable. “This is my – last chance, so to speak. The Department has ruled that I may continue to work for them, on the understanding that my activities be monitored.”

This relieves her more than she can say, but she doesn't want to give away her hand. “What are you doing here?”

Now he sighs. “You know how much I hate to say this, Janeway, but: I need your help.”

She casts a sidelong glance at Beverly, who has stepped up beside her and has been studying Braxton with a piercing, steady gaze. “Are you sure about that?”

“Of course,” Braxton snaps. Then, to her surprise, he turns to Beverly. “And I need yours too.”

*

“Let me get this straight.” Kathryn is pacing, back and forth in front of the definitely-dying plant. “You, Braxton, want us, the head of Starfleet medical and an admiral you despise, to travel back in time on a mission to prevent a tricorder from falling into the hands of a civilian.”

Braxton has the gall to look impatient, as though this weren't a complete waste of both Kathryn and Beverly's time. He says: “Yes.”

She stops, spreads her hands wide. “Why now?”

“Now's the time.”

“Why us?” Beverly asks.

“Doctor--”

But Kathryn interrupts him. “ _Braxton_. I have very little reason to trust you as it is, if you recall, so if you want a snowball's chance in hell of me doing what you want, you will answer her question: _why us_?”

Braxton throws his hands up in exasperation. “Because it has to be you! That's all I can tell you. Janeway, you know the way this works, and even you can understand the sense of adhering to the Temporal Prime Di--”

“Directive, yes, you don't need to spell it out for me. Fine. Now, one question, and the most important one.” She leans forward over the desk, doesn't take her eyes off his. “Why should we trust you?”

He's been expecting the question, it seems – as well he should, Kathryn thinks – and without ceremony produces a small, futuristic PADD-like device from his jacket pocket and hands it to her. “In this you will find confirmation of my orders and fitness for duty, authorisation to undertake the mission I have just detailed to you, and contact information for emergency time-retrieval should your actions place you in life-threatening danger. For the duration of this mission, you are officers of the Temporal Investigation Department and shall be treated as such. The documents are signed, as you'll see, by Commander Ducane. You might remember him.”

“Indeed,” Kathryn murmurs, looking over the files; she resists the urge to mention Ducane's promotion, resists the stronger urge to ask if he got it as a result of catching Braxton the first time. Turning her back to him, she fixes her eyes on Beverly. “How do you feel about this?”

Beverly glances over at Braxton, back at Kathryn, and the corner of her lip hooks up in a smirk. “Well, who am I to argue with the Temporal Prime Directive?” She shrugs, an elegant hitch of her narrow shoulder. “Besides, I could think of a few worse travel companions than you.”

Resisting the vaguely inappropriate urge to smile, Kathryn nods briskly and turns back to glare at her least favourite time officer. “All right, Captain, we'll play along. But mark my words, if you break my trust, you won't know what hit you. I will do _anything I have to_ in order to get back home. Understood?” An empty threat, of course; she wouldn't really wreak havoc all over the timeline just for the sake of getting back to Starfleet Headquarters and an apartment populated by nothing but clean-cut, minimalistic furniture and a dead bromeliad, but Braxton doesn't know that.

He pales as though on cue, but recovers enough to say, “Admiral, I don't doubt that for a moment. Understood.”

*

“Not how I expected to be spending our latest Tuesday evening rendezvous, but I guess that's life in Starfleet for you.”

Beverly's voice is muffled by the fact that she's bent over the straps of her boots as she speaks, but Kathryn understands anyway; has to smile. “Me either. You have your modified phaser?”

“Yes. Tricorder?”

“One standard and one medical. Commbadges are hidden but active, we have copies of Braxton's contact information, and the Starfleet manifest shows that you and I are due to head out today on a top secret emergency mission.”

Beverly raises a sceptical eyebrow. “The Head of Starfleet Medical and a decorated admiral? Must be quite a mission.” She grins, so sudden and bright that Kathryn feels it in her fingertips, like a shock. “Any chance it tells us when we'll get back?”

Kathryn resists the urge to grin but quirks a lip at her, switches off the PADD she's holding and stows it in the pocket of her pants. “No such luck; I'm afraid we've only got ourselves and our crossed fingers to rely on.”

Beverly looks up from where she's double-checking the contents of her pockets and studies Kathryn. “Do you trust him?”

“Braxton? Not for the life of me. But I've had a handful of dealings with him over the years; I've seen him at his most irrational, and this wasn't it. Ducane I've met, and I'm more inclined to believe this notion to be something less than insane if he's involved.” She smiles wryly. “He was clever enough to figure out that I wouldn't just willingly jump back in time on nothing but Braxton's word, so that says something for him.”

“I suppose it does.” Beverly glances at her chronometer. “It's about time.”

“Ready?”

Beverly holds her gaze, shoulders squared, ready for anything. “Now or never.”

“Then I guess it's now.”

“By the way, if we get stranded in some obscure period of history with no way home, I'm blaming you.” She says it gravely, but her dancing eyes belie her tone – there's something about her, Kathryn thinks, that is entirely incapable of cruelty, something that makes her a terribly agreeable companion.

 _Focus, Kathryn_. “I'm blaming Braxton,” she retorts, not a beat too late (she hopes), and Beverly grins.

“Come on, let's get this over with. You still haven't told me about O'Connor's resignation.”

Kathryn eyes her sidelong, sly. “Gossip.”

Hand to her heart, Beverly manages a halfway-convincing impression of 'taken aback'. “Me?”

“You. Now stand beside me, we've got fourteen seconds until we're due to beam – or whatever this is – out. Who knows what kind of disasters we'll instigate if we're half a moment late.”

Beverly rolls her eyes. “The joys of temporal mechanics.”

As Braxton instructed her earlier, Kathryn holds the time-transporter device in her hand and watches the countdown: ten seconds, eight seconds, five, three – then, when it reaches one, she grabs Beverly's hand (logic, she'll tell herself later) and presses the button that will transport them into the past.

*

They materialise, as Braxton had predicted (or promised; damned time travel even makes verbs difficult), about a half a mile out from the city, in the shadow of a huge oak tree that groans beneath its own weight in the sway of the wind. The sensation of being transported was remarkably unremarkable, but Kathryn can't stop herself from glancing down to check that all her belongings – and, she'd refuse to admit aloud to anyone, body parts – have remained intact; the device is still clutched firmly in her right hand, she can still feel the press of her tricorder in her pocket, and Beverly is standing cool and collected beside her, not a hair out of place: so far so good.

Beverly looks her over, dispenses with the small talk: they're both fine and she knows it. “So, when are we?”

Kathryn likes Beverly.

Without discussion, they turn simultaneously in the direction of the bay and start to walk, Kathryn thumbing through the sleek, futuristic controls of the device Braxton gave her. “According to these readouts, exactly where we should be. San Francisco, 372 metres north-east of where Starfleet Headquarters will one day be. The time is 14:12, the date is December 30, 2041.”

They pass a young mother, laughing as her son sits proudly on the trunk of a tree he's just climbed; the woman glances up as they near her, and Kathryn finds herself meeting a warm, open smile.

“Hard to believe that this is only eight years before the start of the Third World War,” Beverly murmurs, angling her head in to Kathryn's, voice too soft for Kathryn to be able to avoid mirroring the gesture. The winter wind is crisp, hits her face with a sharpness not entirely unpleasant, and she moves a little closer to Beverly, allows them to fall into step. “I wonder if these people have any idea what's coming?”

“Some will, some won't, as it always is. A lot can change in eight years.”

Beverly concedes the point with an elegant tip of her head. “A lot can change in eight minutes – just look at us.”

Kathryn wonders for a moment what she's referring to and then realises – of course – she means the time-travel; feels girlish and exposed, regressed in a second to a woman half her age, takes comfort in the fact that she's experienced enough not to let these things show on her face. (She hopes.) “Indeed.” If Beverly is watching her with eyes more piercing than usual, Kathryn isn't going to let her know that she knows it. “Braxton's coordinates put us close to the location of the tricorder, but we're still going to have to walk a little to get there.”

“Understood.” They continue walking in companionable silence, side-by-side, observing what's around them. It's an interesting period in Earth's history politically, one Kathryn knows a little about from her history and diplomacy studies at command school, but not one that provides a great deal of variety on sight – when she compares the buildings, the streets, the people to how they were when she was trapped on Earth in 1996, she sees differences that are easy to spot but far from radical. Inside it might be different, but out here it seems almost the same: the air thick and grey and polluted with city smog, yet to be filtered out by the weather net of the future; commercial and residential buildings towering in clusters of varying architectural design, each seemingly taller than the last, a mishmash that perfectly reflects the multifaceted nature of the society inhabiting it.

They round the corner and turn onto the street to be met with the wall of sight and sound that is San Francisco's mid-afternoon traffic; twenty-first century automobiles and mass-transport vehicles intermixed with chunky motorcycles and good old-fashioned strength-powered bicycles.

Beverly shakes her head, taking in the scene around them. “Unbelievable, isn't it? It's another world.”

Kathryn nods; she's just been thinking the same thing, after all. “I know I should expect it, but it still takes me by surprise every time.”

Curious, Beverly looks over at her. “You never did tell me – how many times have you been thrown back in time?”

“Enough,” Kathryn replies dryly. “Remind me to tell you about it when we're back in the 24th century.”

“I'll hold you to that.”

She feels Beverly's smile, feels the bright eyes trained on the side of her head, and it is instinct for Kathryn to tilt her head, to return it. Car horns and pollution and the chatter of passers by whipping around them on the breeze, in a time not their own, Kathryn thinks: _I'm glad I'm here_ and means: _I'm glad I'm here with you_. Prepared to say something to diffuse the tension she's sure she's generating with her inopportune thoughts, she is interrupted when something catches her eye – a man, tall and well-dressed and balding, stooping slightly to enter some kind of food retailer a few yards away. Nothing in itself is suspicious about him, but he's pinged Kathryn's radar, and that's enough to make her want to investigate.

“What's wrong?” Beverly asks; without preamble, Kathryn gestures to a nearby tree.

“I want to check the scanner again.” She moves to the side, Beverly casually manoeuvring herself to block the device from view; not that anyone would wonder what it was, what with all the complex handheld technology flooding this century (thank you, once again, Henry Starling). She runs the scan Ducane instructed her to use if she thought she was getting close, and sure enough, there's a small red light in the direction of the shop. “I knew it.”

“It's too small, though,” Beverly murmurs, leaning in closer to better see the screen; Kathryn breathes in and gets a lungful of sweetly-scented hair for her trouble, and wonders – she doesn't normally know Beverly to use any such enhancing agents. A thought for later; Beverly is still talking. “You see? Braxton said the vibrations would extend to this section here if we'd found the object. I think we've rather--”

“--Found someone who's been in contact with it.”

“Exactly.”

“Right, then let's follow him; with any luck, he'll lead us right to it.”

*

Thirty-seven minutes, a train and a bus ride later, Kathryn and Beverly are standing, disbelieving, at the foot of a set of crumbling steps. The steps lead to an old apartment building, inside which they have just successfully located and retrieved the offending tricorder. The state of California and the world at large are now, according to Braxton's words, safe from temporal contamination by an errant, inexplicable electronic device from the future. They stand there. Stare at the tricorder. Stare up at each other.

Beverly is the first one to say it. “It can't be that easy.” She frowns, looks down at the tricorder again, looks back up. “Can it?”

“Logic, at this moment, would tend to say yes. Life experience, on the other hand...”

“We've done our part. We've retrieved the anachronistic device--” Hidden in plain sight on the tall, balding man's kitchen counter, “and determined the reasoning behind his taking it--” He'd found it on the street somewhere and decided to give it to his nephew as a belated Christmas present, thinking it was an interactive game console. Beverly shrugs. “I say we get the hell out of here and stop looking for shadows. Maybe there aren't any.”

“Maybe,” Kathryn echoes, though she privately wonders if anything Braxton's done has ever been entirely shadow-free. Beverly is watching her, reading her expression, and Kathryn makes an effort to shake it off. “Let's go.”

Their coordinates for beam-out have also been specified – temporal prime directive, Kathryn doesn't know why she even bothers to ask any more – and they turn out to be within reasonable walking distance of where they are. The sky is starting to darken, now, and Kathryn registers for the first time the bright lights and colourful decorations strewn about the city, twined around trees and dangling from streetlamps; a moment, and then she registers the date, registers that this is the way in which the holiday Christmas was celebrated for several decades. Despite the occasionally unpleasant flashing of a lit-up neon sign, the atmosphere of the thing seems harmless, almost innocent, though she knows from Tom's ever-enthusiastic obsession with this period that the mess caused by nights of celebration at this time of year often told another story.

She turns to share this thought with Beverly, but stops when she sees the pensive expression on her face; not dark, but more melancholy than she's usually seen her, and before she can wonder if it's a good idea or not, she's touched a hand to Beverly's forearm and asked, “Hey, are you all right?”

Beverly doesn't exactly startle, but she seems to have to pull herself away from wherever her thoughts had taken her; Kathryn wants to know, overtaken by a wave of sudden, desperate curiosity, but doesn't ask. “I'm sorry,” Beverly says. “I was thinking about Wesley. I always do around this time of year.”

Kathryn knows about Wesley, of course, from _Enterprise_ mission reports as well as from her two-month but ever-growing friendship with Beverly. She doesn't talk about him often, but Kathryn supposes he must be always lurking somewhere at the forefront of her mind. It makes sense that the memory of an event traditionally considered a time for family would swing her thoughts around to him. “Of course,” she murmurs, squeezes Beverly's forearm where it still rests there, a little pressure to make it felt through the material of her jacket. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“My birthday,” Beverly answers, doesn't even have to think about it, and Kathryn smiles. “He always drops by for that – for important holidays, the anniversary of Jack's death, that sort of thing. He's quite good, really.” She shrugs, bumps her hip into Kathryn's, and the impish grin returns with full force. “For someone gallivanting around other dimensions, he keeps remarkably good track of time. Definitely didn't get _that_ from his father.”

“You'll have to tell me more about him, some time – about both of them.” The device beeps softly, signalling that they've reached their beam-out coordinates, and Kathryn stops, quirks a smile – is she being coy? – up at Beverly. “I'm curious to learn about the man with the power to win over Beverly Crusher.”

“When we're back,” she promises. “It's a date.”

The coordinates place them behind a busy fish shop; Kathryn wastes no time in calling up and double, triple-checking the information to send them back home: date, time, year, location, all as they left it, and as Braxton confirmed. “Looks good to me,” Kathryn says, tilting the display to allow Beverly to scan it; she does so briskly and then nods, satisfied.

“To me too. Let's do this.” Beverly shifts a little closer, keeps a hand on the device, and says: “Ready when you are, Admiral.”

Kathryn wonders at the way the title forms on Beverly's tongue, almost playful, and then hits the button to send them back home.

*

It would be nice, Kathryn thinks later, to be able to say she could feel instantly that something was off, but she couldn't; she could only see it once they'd materialised and her eyes first focused on her surroundings. Then she doesn't just feel it; she knows it.

Beside her, unflappable as ever, Beverly just sighs. “I should have known it wouldn't be that easy.”

“No,” Kathryn murmurs, eyes still on the sight the before them, “you were right to be optimistic. Live in hope, as they say.”

At least they don't have to waste their time looking for newspapers, Kathryn thinks, her gaze drawn up to the enormous multicoloured banner strung over the road between two telegraph poles. It reads: GOODBYE '99! WELCOME TO THE NEW MILLENNIUM!

Beverly leans over Kathryn's shoulder, hand brushing past hers as she checks the readout on the temporal device. “The date is still December 30; we've just jumped a further fifty years into the past instead of three hundred years, give or take a few months, into the future. Go figure.”

Kathryn takes a long, slow deep breath and then says, mildly, “When – _when_ , Beverly, not if – we get home, to our real time, I am going to single-handedly appropriate all the resources of the temporal mechanics department at HQ and find a way to track down Braxton and _murder him_.”

Beverly nods seriously. “As a physician and the resident head of Starfleet Medical, I'm afraid I can't be seen to officially endorse that plan of action. As the person stuck here with you, I say: how can I help?”

Kathryn laughs, allows herself the brief burst of delight that comes from being this woman's unlikely time-travel companion, inclines her head at Beverly with a gracious smile. “Good to know I've got you on my side. Now, let's find out what the hell is going on here: if this is an accident, I'll stand on my head and recite the Federation Day speech backwards.”

“Now _that_ would be something worth seeing,” Beverly says, but softly; Kathryn has already plugged in the information to contact Braxton. She's halfway to expecting it to be false, to ring out and go unanswered, so it's a surprise when she only has to wait a couple of moments before the call connects; she is even more surprised to be greeted not only with audio, but with a video message – not from Braxton, but from Ducane.

“Hello, Admiral Janeway; Doctor Crusher,” he says. “No doubt you have questions – I'll not waste time with pleasantries.”

“Appreciated,” Kathryn mutters, even though she knows he can't hear her.

“If this message has been activated, it's because you've attempted unsuccessfully to transport back to the 24th century and have found yourselves trapped in the year 1999.”

They glance at each other, Kathryn's frown echoed on the elegant angles of Beverly's face.

“I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is: you will get back to your own time. The bad news is: I can't tell you how or when. What I can tell you is that your arrival at this time, in this year, is not accidental. Our time sensors recorded a disturbance set to occur within a three kilometre radius of where you are--”

“How can he know that?”

Kathryn rolls her eyes. “Temporal prime directive?”

“--before the year turns over. It would also be valuable to know that--” A crackle, a rush of static, a high-pitched hiss, one last broken shot of Ducane's face, and the image is gone, the lights on the temporal device out and suspiciously unresponsive. Kathryn tries to reboot it, turns over at peers at the underside in an attempt to glean some hints. Hits it a couple of times, just to experiment.

“Please tell me it just needs recharging.”

Kathryn looks down at the useless chunk of metal in her hands, looks back at Beverly; refuses to be defeated. “This is technology from the 29th century that can traverse the dimensions of time and space seemingly at will. Its power cells recharge on their own, and should, according to the information from our two delightful friends, constantly be powered at operational capacity.”

Beverly looks at her. “So it's broken.”

Kathryn looks back. “It would appear so.”

“Well, this is certainly going to make for an interesting report.”

She has to laugh, despite the sense that they've just fallen down the rabbit hole; something about Beverly's dry, almost disinterested approach to this absurdity is spiriting. “Let's find somewhere a little more – isolated – to consider our predicament, shall we?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Beverly says, and they head off, away from the crowd.

*

“So, let's recap: we are trapped at the turn of the 20th century with a temporal transportation device that is currently refusing to turn on.”

“Yes.”

“Our 'contact' in the future has either directly lied to us or, at the very least, neglected to give us vital information about how and why we're here and what our purpose is. We know we have to do something; we don't know what. We know there's a way to get home; we don't know how. We know we have until December 31 to figure it out, get it done, and get back home.” Kathryn glances up from where she sits, elbows dangling on her knees, counting off on her fingers. “Does that sound about right to you?”

“Just about.” Beverly is also sitting, almost lounging against a nearby rock, head tilted slightly upwards to catch the few stingy rays of winter sunlight half-heartedly thinking about shining down from above them. “You are forgetting that we do still have two working commbadges, tricorders, and a couple of fully-charged phasers. We're not entirely without help or protection; in this century, our technology counts for a lot.”

“There she is, the eternal optimist.” Beverly bats her eyelashes in a truly over-exaggerated manner and Kathryn grins. “But you're right,” Kathryn concedes, “we do have some equipment, and that's a hell of a lot better than nothing. Just a shame I can't make heads or tails of this thing.” She gestures at the temporal device, lying pathetically on the floor beside her foot. She's spent the past hour doing her best to figure out the technology, to tinker with it enough to get a signal – damned the temporal prime directive, she'll tell Braxton when they return; they're stuck in the past and she needs all the help she can get. She eventually managed to get a response from the sleeping instrument, a soft beep and a flicker of red light that accompanied a disproportionate jolt of hope, but all she got was a message calmly informing her that _An error has occurred. Repairs required_.

As if she couldn't have figured that out herself. She's since given up in frustration (she'll try again later, maybe something will have changed) and has turned to other options, of which there unfortunately seem to be few. But that state of mind isn't going to get her anywhere, and nor is sitting here fuming about the depressing fact that even by the 29th century, technology doesn't seem to have gotten more reliable.

As though sensing her thoughts – perhaps Beverly's really been spending too much time with Deanna Troi; could half-Betazoid abilities be contagious? – Beverly chooses that moment to say, “Enough talking,” and hoist herself off the floor in a movement Kathryn finds obnoxiously elegant for a woman of her age. She says as much, but Beverly just looks back over her shoulder at her and grins. “Why, you need a hand?”

Kathryn scoffs, pulls herself off the ground (thank the powers that be for the strength of her quadriceps) and stalks past Beverly with her chin in the air. She even manages to swallow back the smile that is somehow, traitorously, threatening to erupt across her face. She's almost proud.

They gather their things and head down the hill they half-ascended in order to take stock of their situation in some semblance of privacy. It seems to have worked; the only people they've seen since arriving have been few and far between, the occasional jogger or cyclist or clump of children. Why she and Beverly always find themselves in a park somewhere in the past she doesn't know, but she's going to find out.

“The only piece of concrete information we have is that this 'time disturbance', as Ducane called it, is set to occur in the next 24 hours, and in a radius of a few kilometres from here.” Beverly drums three long fingers against the tricorder on her belt. “That's good news; at least we know we're in the right place. We still have no idea what we're looking for, of course, but we have the capability to scan for it. We're just going to have to think creatively.” She glances at her chronometer and grimaces. “And fast.”

Kathryn is silent a moment, considering, and then nods. “I think we should split up.” Beverly opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, Kathryn holds a hand up and continues. “I know it's a risk, but we have two tricorders, very little time, and no idea what we're doing. If we divide and conquer, so to speak, we can cover more ground, then arrange to meet somewhere at a certain time. If something goes wrong, send out a distress signal from the communicator; I've connected them to the tricorders so we'll instantly be able to see each other's locations.” She pauses, puts her hand down. “I'm sorry for interrupting. What do you think?”

To her surprise, Beverly looks more amused than put out. “I was just going to say I agree. Under these circumstances, it's the most sensible solution.”

Kathryn blinks, once, twice; can't cover it before Beverly notices and smirks. “You were expecting resistance?”

“I'm – yes, I have to admit.” She glances down, laughs a little. “I guess seven years in the Delta Quadrant with Chakotay has gotten me used to dealing with... over-protectiveness. He was a wonderful first officer, don't get me wrong, but I sometimes had to fight to get my way.”

Beverly studies her, eyes glinting mischievously in the straggles of late morning light. “Well, I can't promise you won't occasionally have to fight me on some things, but for now you're safe.”

Kathryn grins. “I'm relieved to hear it.”

“Now,” Beverly says, “let's switch tricorders – unless you want to take the medical one?” Kathryn frowns and hands it over. “And let's get down to business.”

*

Business, it turns out, is about as stimulating as reviewing monthly personnel reports for Starfleet Command. The atmosphere of this time, this place at this time, is fascinating; Kathryn knows a little about this period from a combination consisting primarily of her own reading and Tom Paris' bright array of holodeck programs. There's a sense of things building, an air of development and change, a blend of fear and excitement that is said by present-day – her present day – socio-anthropologists to be representative of the time; it's a strange thing to be able to feel it, and to feel it in a way that she hadn't when the crew were trapped back in 1996, though it was only three years earlier.

“Maybe I'm imagining it,” she says, and she directs it to Beverly even though Beverly isn't there. She glances at her chronometer; Kathryn's never been one to put off work she knows needs to be done, but this task, wandering about and scanning blindly in the vain hope of hitting something relevant, is pushing the limits of her tolerance. “I'm an admiral, damn it. Shouldn't my clearance level get me out of this kind of thing?”

A small child on a scooter pedals past her, shoots her a look two parts suspicion and one part fear. _A madwoman_ , the child's expression declares, as loudly and clearly as though he'd spoken it out.

 _Yes, indeed_ , Kathryn thinks. Only crazy people talk to themselves. Crazy people and Starfleet officers who suddenly find themselves trapped in the 20th century, for the second time in their careers, and on a mission that probably couldn't be more hopeless if it tried, and--

\--her self-indulgent stream of consciousness is interrupted by a beep. Did her tricorder just _beep_? Trying to clamp down on the desperate hope she feels bubbling up in her chest before it can suffocate her, she checks that the child is gone, that no one in the vicinity is paying attention to her (they aren't; it would seem that a lone middle-aged woman in unfashionable clothing – little to do they know that she's setting a trend – doesn't present much interest to passers-by), and flips the tricorder open. The first thing it registers is her own life sign – good. Beverly's, about two kilometres north – also good. A foreign piece of futuristic technology, 867m to the south of where she's standing, and on the move – debatable.

Her fingers are half an inch from reaching her commbadge when it chirps. “Janeway here.”

“Are you getting this?” Beverly says by way of an answer.

“My tricorder registered something a moment before you called. Are you closer? Do you know what it is?”

She can almost hear Beverly shaking her head, and suppresses a smile. “Not yet. I'm heading in that direction to investigate – it's a little further from you than it is from me, but catch up with me?”

Already increasing the pace of her steps, Kathryn scoffs. “Why should I be the one to do all the catching up?”

“You're younger.” Now she can _definitely_ hear her smirking. “See you soon.”

It's a little over a kilometre on foot, but flat, easy ground, and Kathryn makes it to Beverly's coordinates in a matter of minutes. Beverly greets her with a nod and they fall into an asy jog together, following the ever-shifting signal.

“I wonder why the tricorder can't identify what it is?” Kathryn frowns down at it. “That's unusual.”

“Some sort of interference; I tried with the medical tricorder as well and got the same result. I have a suspicion we're dealing with something from the future here.”

Kathryn looks over at her. “Because nothing adds up.” It isn't a question.

“And because this entire situation feels somehow... forced. We're missing something. We need to--”

Kathryn leans over her, suddenly, indicates the blinking red light on her tricorder. “Look, it's stopped.”

They exchange a glance and start running faster. This earns them a few skewed glances from passers-by, and Kathryn supposes they must look rather a strange sight, indeed. This city is no stranger to people of varying ages and builds clad in tight athletic clothing, but she and Beverly are certainly not dressed for the occasion; she counters each sceptical look with a too-pleasant smile, and marvels at the speed with which she is suddenly found to be far less interesting. Following the signal, they bend around the corner of a city block and find themselves in a more run-down, less populated side street: she sees a number of huge old-fashioned cartons for waste dotted along the side of the alley; a handful of stray newspapers; a lone ginger cat, scruffy and thin, poking its nose with half-hearted interest into an abandoned bag of scraps. All in all, the place looks like a rather cliché representation of a less affluent area of this period.

She casts a look at Beverly, eyebrows raised, and Beverly inclines her head towards the end of the alley. “Come on, it's further down here.”

The signal leads them around a smaller series of turns until they reach a large building, dark brown brick, ugly, generally nondescript, and – at least from the outside – seemingly abandoned. The few windows set high in the walls that face the street are boarded up or covered with grey plastic sheets; the front door is a huge old wooden thing, dirty green paint curling off its sunken panels in weather-damaged peels, that looks as though it's one strong breeze away from falling off its hinges entirely.

“Well,” Beverly says dubiously, “this looks promising.”

She double checks her readings though she knows what they're going to say: this is the place. There's no one around, and they cross the street and manage to pry their way into the warehouse without attracting any immediate attention. What greets them is roughly what Kathryn expected, though even more bare: the first floor consists of nothing but an empty basement with no furniture and a rickety metal staircase leading up to the higher floors. They're close enough now that their scans show that what they're seeking is on the uppermost level, and she is directly behind Beverly and her everlasting legs as they take the stairs three at a time to find it; quick scans of the other floors as they pass them reveal the same thing – nothing – and they keep going.

“Still no life signs,” Kathryn mutters, glancing down at the tricorder in her hand. “How can that be?”

“I don't know, but I have a feeling we're about to find out.”

Truer words ne'er spoken, and the like; they pause at the doorway to the top floor and, phasers at the ready, just in case, Kathryn signals to Beverly to go in after three.

She doesn't realise until she gets into the room that she's expecting something … larger scale. She'd prepared herself for wall-to-wall computers, for banks and rows of circuitry and a serious, intricate operation. Maybe it's perverse, but it seems to her almost too easy to have a run-down warehouse in an alley in the past turn out to be as deserted as it had first appeared. But now, she finds herself looking to meet Beverly's eye with a distinct sense of scepticism.

“What is it?” Beverly asks, scanner already flipped open.

“I wonder.”

A small black box, innocently seated beside a concrete support strut in the north-west corner of the room – they approach it slowly, carefully, determined to gain some information that tells them something other than what they already know: that this is a piece of technology that neither comes from nor belongs in this time.

“It doesn't have the properties of an explosive device,” Kathryn says, once she's come closer and has conducted the few rudimentary scans that determine that they are not – at least, as far as they can ascertain – in any immediate danger. “It's very difficult to makes sense of, this--” she glares at the readings in frustration, “--this is definitely technology from beyond our time. I can't estimate how far in the future exactly, but I would say at least 200 years.”

“26th century technology,” Beverly ponders. “There's no registration data?”

“Not that I can access right now, anyway.”

Beverly looks around her, takes in the abandoned warehouse, the complete lack of any signs of life, the lack of anything save this tiny black box that they can't identify. “So what does it do?”

Kathryn flips her tricorder closed and sighs. “Damned if I know. But I do know one thing: I'm not leaving it at that. Whatever this thing is, is isn't going to blow up in our faces, so I say we steal it and try to find out what it does, then stop it.”

Beverly watches her. “Or we stay. We stay here, try to find out what it does, and hope to catch whoever is responsible for bringing it here when they return.” She shrugs. “We'd have the element of surprise on our sides, wouldn't we?”

“Yes,” Kathryn concedes, “but it's dangerous. We don't know who or what we're dealing with here, or what kind of technology they have at their disposal. We'd risk going into a fight with two tricorders and a couple of outdated energy weapons.” They watch each other; Beverly standing, feet braced and back straight, Kathryn still crouched on the ground beside the box. “But we're short on time, and we don't have many options. If we stay, we stay together. I don't want to risk us splitting up now unless it's absolutely necessary. Agreed?”

Beverly cocks her hip and salutes her, so playful as to borderline on flirtatious, and Kathryn feels the knowledge rise inside her, feels it flutter warm between her ribs. “Yes, Admiral.”

Kathryn turns back to her project before her smile can give her completely away.

*

Time ticks by, speeds by, glacial and faster than either of them can see. In theory, Beverly is on watch, but after an hour and a half of conducting frequent patrols and finding nothing but the creak of old wood in the rising breeze, the rustle of the occasional plastic bag along the gutter in the street below them, she's taken to watching from inside the building instead. Her body is a coil of alert strength as she sits beside Kathryn, ready to spring at any moment, and Kathryn finds herself wondering, in one brief, unguarded moment, how the gold of a Starfleet security uniform might set off Beverly's hair. Not that the blue doesn't suit her.

In another life, perhaps. She is about to open her mouth to ask, to pose a few small talk questions the answers to which she finds herself wanting to know – _which command subjects did you take at the academy? Did you ever consider_ \--? – when Beverly speaks. Her voice doesn't travel well in this cavernous, echoing chamber of a warehouse floor, through the curtain of her loose hair as she bends her head over the medical tricorder (Kathryn had had to cannibalise it for parts about ten minutes earlier, and now Beverly is working on improvising it back into functionality).

“You know, I think you should be proud of yourself.”

It's also not what Kathryn would have expected to hear, and it takes her a moment to replay the words, to check that she's heard them correctly. “Why do you say that?”

“Because it's been--” Beverly checks her chronometer, “--eleven and a half hours since you last had a cup of coffee, and you haven't tried to murder me _once_.” Now she does look up, grey-streaked golden bangs in her eyes, and grins; something about it reaches out, twists itself into Kathryn's heart, and she is caught by the almost uncontrollable urge to kiss the lines of laughter at Beverly's eyes. “I'm genuinely impressed.”

Kathryn pauses in her own tinkering and waits for Beverly to meet her gaze. “Doctor Crusher,” she says gravely, “is it possible that you're mocking me?”

Beverly leans in, and it's not just the suggestion of flirting now, it's the real thing, stark and bright and luminous and attention all-consuming like her eyes. “Is it possible that you might be enjoying it?”

She'd have responded to that in some quick-witted manner, she's sure, but just at that moment, one of the cross-wires jumps into her vision, she taps a few keys, and she has it; can't do anything about the soft gasp that leaves her mouth when understanding descends. “Oh, God,” she murmurs. “Of course.”

“What is it?”

Every trace of playfulness gone, Beverly is all concern, and Kathryn turns to her with a horror she only half-successfully masks. “It's Y2K.”

Beverly blinks at her, her entire face a question mark.

“It was a computer bug that occurred at the turn of the millennium, when the year 2000 became indistinguishable from the year 1900. According to Tom Paris, my ever-reliable source of information on these matters, there were several conspiracy theories going around that believed that the computers would stop working entirely, would try to reset to a time that didn't exist and thereby destroy all the digitally-stored information on the planet.” She shakes her head, looks from the box in her hand to Beverly's patient eyes. “It didn't happen. There were a few hiccups, but it was by no means the disaster that the media of the time had presented it to be.”

Beverly inclines her chin towards Kathryn's fingers, drumming an uneven rhythm on the outer casing of the box. “So what's this?”

“This is a virus,” Kathryn says, voice low, dangerous with the meaning of the words. “This is a virus, planted here by someone from the future, designed to infiltrate the systems of every computer in existence and wipe out their contents. Every one. This is the Y2K that never happened.”

“How is that possible?”

Kathryn shakes her head, and she knows Beverly must be able to read the frustration clear on her face, but she can't hide it; doesn't bother to try. “I can't tell you. I know so little for certain, and most of my information has come from a combination of luck, persistence and educated guesswork, but that's what this is. This is undoubtedly what Braxton and Ducane were talking about. This,” she taps the casing harder, and the sound echoes around them, “is what we are here to prevent.”

Beverly's careful expression gives nothing away, and Kathryn feels her steadiness, her professionalism, and appreciates it in a sudden rush. She asks, “Can we do it?”

Kathryn thinks about the answer before she gives it, thinks about what she just realised a couple of seconds ago, thinks about the consequences; thinks about _Voyager_ , inevitably, always all over again; thinks about how her life is a ridiculous, recurring temporal causality loop of the same decision. How she knows she'll always make it the same way.

She looks up, directly into Beverly's eyes, straight and clear. “Yes. But there's a catch.”

Beverly smiles wryly at her, half a lip twitching upwards before it returns to its usual place. “There usually is.”

“Even if I were to combine all the power sources we have at our disposal, tricorders and phasers and commbadges, it wouldn't be enough. I can overload the system. I can do it now, before whoever's responsible for this comes back, and I can stop it from destroying all the recorded data from Earth's combined computational history.” She takes a deep breath in, is back with the Caretaker, with the Ocampa, with an angry, bitter half-crew of Maquis. “But in order to do it, I need to use the time-travel device. It's the only thing powerful enough, and with advanced enough technology, to be able to counter this futuristic virus. It's also our only way home.”

“So we'd be trapped here,” Beverly says. “Maybe indefinitely.”

“Yes.”

“But we'd prevent an enormous technological disaster that isn't supposed to happen.”

“Yes.”

“Then the choice is simple, isn't it? We stay.”

Kathryn opens her mouth, though whether to argue, to fight her, to ask if she's sure, she never finds out, because Beverly crosses the distances between them and kisses her. Just once, her lips soft but lingering, and then she pulls back and looks at Kathryn, intent and fearless, and Kathryn's breath catches in her throat. “We stay,” she repeats. “We do what's right. We'll find a way home.”

“I've heard those words before,” Kathryn says, faintly, and Beverly smiles.

“You made them come true. You did it once; you'll do it again.”

“All right.” No time for anything else; it's decided, and she's still on a time-limit. She pulls out the temporal device Braxton gave her, looks at it once, and then gets to work.

  
**FOUR MONTHS LATER**  
  
  


They stare down at the charred remains in front of them, dismayed; Kathryn chances a look at Beverly, who almost visibly puts on a brave face and smiles across at her. “It could be worse, couldn't it?”

Kathryn frowns. “Are you sure about that?”

“Well, you could have burned down the apartment.”

Damn this woman and her ability to make Kathryn laugh at the most inappropriate of times, but she can't help it. She goes to hit Beverly in the arm with the skewer but she ducks away just in time, grinning. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry – would you consider a peace treaty?”

“Temporarily.” Kathryn points the skewer at her, pulls out her best Threatening Admiral Face. It might be a few months since she's used it, but it's still fresh in her mind; she doesn't think it's something she'll ever lose. “You're on probation, Doctor. Watch it, or you'll pay for it later.”

Beverly leers at her over the kitchen counter. “Is that a promise?”

Kathryn's response is cut off – perhaps thankfully – by the sound of three rapid knocks on their front door. “Would you mind?” she asks Beverly, inclining her head towards it. “The chicken's dead and gone, but I'm still naïve enough to believe that the apple crumble isn't a totally hopeless case.”

“That's probably Marcy from across the hall,” Beverly says; she's already walking over to the door, her long, graceful strides drawing Kathryn's appreciative eye. “She wanted to come by and bring me some books that we--”

“Doctor Crusher.”

The name, the tone, the crisp, clipped vowels; Kathryn glances up, puts down her spatula, feels her stomach do a slow flip: inevitability, she thinks, can still be surprising.

“Admiral Janeway,” Braxton says. He doesn't ask to come in, but Beverly steps aside to let him in anyway; her face looks as pale as Kathryn's feels. “It's good to see you.” He turns to Beverly. “Both of you.”

Kathryn narrows her eyes. “I'm not sure if I can say the same.”

“Nor can I,” Beverly adds. “We were expecting you around about four months ago, Captain.”

Braxton, to his credit, doesn't appear to be taken aback by that response; maybe he does have some sense. “I'm sorry it's taken us so long to get to you. I'll explain everything.” He hold her eyes, still firmer and saner than she remembers, than she expects. “But first things first: I'm here to take you home.”

*

Spring is later than usual, this year, slow to break itself out of the hiding it was forced into by winter, but when Kathryn tries, she can see the first signs of growth wherever she looks. There are swallows twittering in the highest boughs of the trees outside the window of her apartment; the leaves shimmer green and new when the light hits them right.

They're doing that now, and she finds that she can't drag her eyes away from it – doesn't want to drag her eyes away – as she sits in her living room, cradling a rapidly cooling cup of coffee, and listens to Braxton talk.

After four months of living together, even if it was in an apartment that probably hasn't existed for hundreds of years, it is only natural for Beverly to invite Braxton to sit down when Kathryn won't. She watches out the corner of her eye as Beverly asks him if he wants something to drink, watches the way she turns and looks for a kettle that isn't there before she has to double back and go to the replicator instead. Watches the blush that blooms across the highest tips of her cheekbones, thinks that she knows far better causes for that.

Now Beverly's beside her, close enough to feel but not to touch, and she takes comfort in the nearness, a desperate thing.

“We couldn't find you,” Braxton is telling them. As though they hadn't figured that out in the four months they spent stuck in the year 2000. “I want to extend my sincere apologies on behalf of Starfleet and the Department of Temporal Investigations that it took us so long. Please believe me when I tell you we did everything we could, but the destruction of the temporal device disabled our time sensors and we were unable to locate you until now.” He stops, wrings his hands, and then looks up again. “Unfortunately, the search coincided with some unpleasant revelations in my home time period, including some events that had to be immediately dealt with.”

“What's that got to do with us?” This is Beverly, now, blunt and to the point.

Braxton grimaces, and Kathryn turns her attention away from the window and fully onto him for the first time. Now it's getting interesting. “This is extremely embarrassing for the department, and--” he pauses, considers something, and sighs a sigh weighted with resignation. “I have been instructed not to disseminate this information any further, but under the circumstances, I believe you have a right to know.”

Kathryn leans forward, but it's Admiral Janeway who gives him a dangerous look. “What?”

“The personal responsible for the – shall we say _unrest_ – in the future is Commander Ducane.”

Kathryn admits it: she didn't see that one coming. She glances over at Beverly, at her unguarded surprise, and then back at Braxton. She says, icy: “Explain.”

Braxton scratches his head in a movement that reminds her briefly of Chakotay. “It would appear,” he says, “that Ducane is suffering from a similar form of temporal psychosis to the one that affected me. We noticed several discrepancies in the timeline, all of which were explainable by some small hiccup or other, until one of our operatives traced them all back to Ducane's signature. We--”

“Wait a moment,” Kathryn says, and her hand stops Braxton's speech from going on any further, at least for now. “You're saying Ducane is responsible for this? Even though he was the one who authorised us to go on this mission in the first place?”

“Yes.”

She looks over at Beverly, who is leaning forward, elbows on her knees, and studying Braxton with an unnerving intensity. “Doesn't that strike you as strangely familiar?”

“I should say,” Beverly murmurs. To Braxton, she says, “We've had several months during which we could get to know each other, Captain; plenty of time to exchange time travel stories. Kathr-- the admiral filled me in on your own situation.”

“Forgive me if it seems a little unbelievable,” Kathryn continues, “that such a thing should happen twice.”

Somewhere in a less charitable part of her mind, she is quietly, wickedly delighted at his obvious discomfort. “This is – this is by no means something that has gone unnoticed, Doctor, Admiral; I can promise you both that. As we speak, the department is launching an extensive investigation into the prevalence of temporal psychosis and the other, lesser-known effects time travel has on the human body. All temporal activity has temporarily been halted in anticipation of the results.”

“I suppose that's something,” Beverly says dryly. “But it doesn't really answer our question. What did Ducane want, and what did it have to do with us?”

“Ducane has been apprehended and questioned by two of our most experienced time agents, and has admitted that his intention was to rid the planet of the thing that has caused the most problems.”

“Computers,” Kathryn guesses.

Braxton nods. “He believes that the world would be better off without them, and decided to go back and make that happen. Regardless of the damage it would cause to the timeline and his own future, among other things.”

“But why not go back a few decades earlier, then?” Beverly asks. “Why not destroy the technology when it was just taking root, instead of waiting until after the computer revolution of the 1990s?”

“You're well informed,” Braxton comments.

Beverly raises an eyebrow at him with a dryness that could rival that of Tuvok. “I've had some experience in the period, in case you'd forgotten.”

Braxton almost blushes at that, _almost_ , Beverly staring him down, and Kathryn feels marginally better about life in general. “Ducane is a clever man, and a good officer – was, at least, for many years, and he knows where and when he can manoeuvre without attracting our attention. He chose the turn of the millennium because it provided the two things he needed most to enable his plan to work: a cover story--”

“Y2K.”

He nods. “--And a period when technology wasn't advanced enough to combat the computer virus he planted – or so he thought.” Braxton looks at them both in turn, and there's something in his expression that, if worn on the face of anyone else, could almost be mistaken for admiration. “When our time sensors picked up the disturbance in 1999, he had to appear to take it seriously. Knowing that you would end up there through the transporter 'accident', that he of course engineered himself, he--”

“--recruited us for the original mission to 2041,” Kathryn finishes. “And, what, just expected us to get trapped there?”

Braxton bares his teeth in an alarming imitation of a smile. “Well, he certainly didn't expect you to find and destroy his device in time to stop the Millennium Bug from doing a lot more damage than it did.”

“But that's what we there for!” Kathryn throws her hands up in frustration. “Is it just me, or does this not make sense?”

“He recruited you because he expected you to try your best but fail, because you only had 24th century technology at your disposal. And very little time.”

Kathryn smirks. “Our good friend Mr Ducane should learn never to underestimate the power of a deadline.”

“And we didn't just have 24th century technology,” Beverly says. “We had the time travel device from the future, and that's how we stopped it. Why didn't he consider that?”

Braxton sighs, weariness etched into the lines on his face. “He sabotaged your device remotely and didn't count on you being able to re-appropriate it, especially not so quickly.”

“Well,” Kathryn says, “this is not my first encounter with technology from the 29th century. He should have known that.”

Braxton drains his cup of coffee and stands, eyes her confidently. “He underestimated you, Janeway, as I once did. It's not a mistake I'd recommend anyone make.”

It's difficult not to feel a little smug at those words, but Kathryn keeps her face straight (she doesn't fool Beverly, of course, who hides her smirk in a delicate cough that fools Kathryn even less, but she's an exception) and stands, puts her own cold cup of coffee aside and extends a hand. “Captain Braxton. God knows we've had our differences, but I have to thank you for coming back for us, and for bringing us home. You didn't have to do it, and I appreciate it.”

He shakes her hand, nods his thanks. “I'm only sorry I didn't get to you sooner. I trust the time you spent in the past was … bearable?”

Kathryn feels sorry for him for a moment – just a moment, before she remembers what he did – and says instead, “We coped.”

He fumbles with the transportation device that will return him to his time ship, docked wherever time ships are usually docked before they've been invented, and then looks back at her. “You know, Janeway, it wasn't really a choice. I did have to come and get you.”

Kathryn raises an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

He shakes his head. “Because I know how much damage you would have done if I'd left you'd there.”

She doesn't have much of a response to that, but she makes up for it by smiling widely and waving at him as he prepares to leave. “Travel safely, Braxton,” she says. “Look after yourself. I sincerely hope we never meet again.”

“Likewise. Admiral; Doctor.”

Beverly nods at him. “Captain Braxton.”

A moment later and he's gone, leaving the two of them standing in a far too large and far too empty apartment, 380 years too late for where they've just been. It's quiet, too quiet; Kathryn notices now, in a way she never has before, how isolating the soundproofed Starfleet-issued quarters really are – no footsteps above or below her, no sounds from the corridors, no knocking or doorbells or shouts from the street below. She turns to Beverly and finds Beverly already watching her, eyes somehow simultaneously piercing and soft.

“So what now?” she asks, and she means it in more ways than one.

“I can't say for sure what's going to happen,” Beverly murmurs, and she takes a step closer to Kathryn, slides her arms up around her neck and through her hair; a little longer, now, since she's been letting it grow. “But I can say that I'll be beside you when it does.”

Kathryn smiles, runs her thumb across the high points of Beverly's cheekbones as she smiles back. “I'm glad to hear it,” she tells her, then she casts a glance at the window and grins. “Who else would see to it that I keep my next house plant alive?”

“Now that's a good question.” Beverly's hands slide back down to her jacket and start a quick, efficient process of undoing buttons, of which Kathryn finds herself highly in favour. “Who else?”

Kathryn works at Beverly's belt, at removing a pair of blue jeans that are now less vintage than antique. “I suppose you'd better stay here, then,” she says, and nibbles at Beverly's earlobe, thrills at the way she still goes instantly limp in her arms.

“I suppose I'd – better,” she breathes, guiding Kathryn into her bedroom with an insistent hand and a grin. “For the good of the plants.”


End file.
